PaganSexGod was an E-Warrior. He ruled his ethereal domain like a third level Paladin that had the infinite lives cheat and the magic sword of Thron. He was a legend in his own subnet. It was not easy, but he was dedicated. He donated long hours in the night to his obsession, when other men of his age were in bed, either asleep or very much awake. He was the Emperor of the Ethernet, the Head Honcho Hacker, The Wizard of the Web. His mother, though, knew him by another name.

"Timmy? Are you still on that computer thing? You're going to be late if you don't get a move on. You've not even had a cup of tea yet."

"Alright, Mum. I'll be down in a tick." His mother irritated him. Oh, he loved her, of course, but she didn't take any of PSG's passion seriously. She thought it was the same as his Warhammer phase, when he would spend his pocket money and spare time making and painting war game figurines, then spend Sundays pitting them against teenage boys, some of whom were, like him, in their twenties. But it was her ignorance that irritated him the most. He must have told her a hundred times that it wasn't called the Interweb, but she still insisted on telling friends and family that her little Timmy was a computer whacker.

He hit the send button on his latest salvo in the Linux versus OS2 flamewar. Econut, his perennial nemesis, was an ignorant, self-opinionated noob, who wouldn't know a decent operating system if it booted him up the backside. Then he locked the session, switched off the screen and surround-sound speakers and hurried downstairs.

"Mum, I'm in the middle of a very important code compilation. Please don't switch my PC off again."

"Okay, Love. Which plug shall I use for the vacuum cleaner?"

"Just leave it, Mum. I'll hoover the room tonight. Please don't touch anything in there. I lost so much work last time you unplugged something."

"Well, okay," she said, doubtfully. "But make sure you do it properly, underneath the bed and everything. What do you want for breakfast?"

PaganSexGod glanced at his hacker's binary watch, then worked his lips silently as he converted the lights into the proper time. "That's fine, Mum. I'll grab something at work. I've got to dash." He took a gulp of the scalding tea, winced at the pain then fled for the door.

"I'll do sausages for tea," called his mother, but the door slammed on her words.

PaganSexGod, PSG to his intimate friends, Tim to everyone else except his mother, sprinted the last hundred yards to the station. He heard the tannoy announce the imminent arrival of his train as he fumbled the ticket through the turnstile. He withstood the disapproving look of the city gent he overtook on the steps to the platform, and leapt through the doors just as the beeping foretold their closure. He stood panting in the carriage passageway, studiously ignored by the other passengers.

He smiled over his small triumph. He had timed it to perfection. Ten seconds later, and he would have had to catch the slower, later train, and he couldn't afford to be late for work again this month. If he had logged off earlier, he would never have been able to wrest the legendary diamond of the Snake Goddess from the temple idol and its supernatural guardians.

He idly fantasised about being so rich he could live in the artificial world forever, ordering in pizza whenever he needed it, becoming the undisputed ruler of the entire E-verse. Women, real women and not just twisted men in their mid-life crisis pretending to be twenty-one year old pole-dancers in chat rooms, would flock to him, drawn by his quick wit, his encyclopaedic knowledge of the E-verse and his raw power. He gently hugged his backpack to his chest, feeling the hard outline of his laptop within. That would be pretty cool.

A little voice, deep in the recesses of his mind, suggested that he would still need to surface into the real world occasionally. The body needed to function, and the mind might, just possibly, need stimulus from the real world. But it was a tiny voice, so small he could easily shout it down.

He looked down at his bag. The zip was undone, and his hand rested lightly the computer's lid. He hadn't even noticed himself doing that. He looked around the carriage. There were no seats available. He would have to stand all the way to London.

He put the bag down at his feet, and when he straightened up, his hand held the laptop. Oh well, it was out of the bag now. He opened the lid and switched it on, resting the base on his forearm, his other hand resting lightly on the keys. Just a quick five minutes would help ease the tedium of the commute.

****

Krall sat up, throwing the furs off his muscled torso. Resting against the tent side, Thron, his magic sword gifted to him by the grateful priests of the mountains, glowed softly blue, gently illuminating the surroundings. Evil must be near.

A blonde woman, barely twenty, opened her eyes and looked up at him muzzily. "Come back to bed, my darling."

"Yes," said her sister from the other side of the bed. "You were so wonderful last night. It's our turn to please you."

The blonde giggled, guiltily. "Now we know why the women of Thrack worship you. Let us show you our devotion."

"Later," said Krall, with a distracted air. He grabbed at his discarded loincloth, thrown impatiently last night over the gold horde, and rose. He tossed a couple of gems onto the bed. "Here, they're a girl's best friend."

"Who is?" asked one of the girls, puzzled.

Krall's eyes turned to the slim grey box in the corner. "Never mind. It's just a saying in ... it's a saying in a distant land."

He sat on the stool that had once belonged to the king of all Middle Mandolia and picked up the smooth box, his huge hands suddenly gentle.

"My Lord!"

The tent flap opened, and in strode Chang, his blood brother and faithful lieutenant. "The enemy is at the ford, and your men are ..."

Chang saw the box on Krall's lap. "No, not again. The battle is about to start. You don't really have time."

"I know, I know. I was just going to ... nothing. It doesn't matter. Only there's an audit at the office, and it could help my appraisal."

The barbarian from the land of volcanoes shook his head in puzzlement. "I love you like my own brother, My Lord, and will follow you into the gates of the seventh hell, but I really don't see the attraction. You have all this." His swept his arm, taking in the treasure chests, the women, the furs, and by implication encompassing the lands that now swore allegiance to him, and all the riches they contained. "Why do you insist on living the life of this Tom? Are you enchanted?"

Krall shrugged his shoulders. "No, no. It's fine. And it's not Tom, it's Tim. Look, I'm putting it away. See? It's nothing. It's just a little escape from this world, that's all. Come on, our swords are thirsty, let us sate them with the blood of our enemy, then tonight, no treasure or maiden will remain unplundered."

"For the Pagan Sex God of the Thrack!" shouted Chang, gesturing with his sword.

Krall grabbed his sword. "May every comely wench worship him!" he answered. The two brothers in arms strode out of the tent. At the doorway, Krall paused, turned, and regarded the opulence. The two women gazed adoringly at him. The torchlight gleamed off gold and silver surfaces. The pelts and exotic furs gave the tent a comfortable air. And softly, quietly, the plain, slim box called to him. He nodded. "Later," he whispered, and was gone.